


Memento

by demonologistindenim



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29030577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonologistindenim/pseuds/demonologistindenim
Summary: Some years after the Winchesters finally kick the bucket stopping another apocalypse, a certain King of Hell comes across a familiar 1967 Chevy Impala, and decides to keep her for himself. Canon divergent one-shot. COMPLETE.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Memento

**Author's Note:**

> **Memento**  
>  _Noun; an object or item that serves to remind one of a person, past event, etc.; keepsake; souvenir._  
>  \- from the "A Is For Assbutt" vocab post series on my Tumblr blog

It has been years since the Winchesters died in a blaze of glory and brotherly love, saving the world and each other from yet another apocalypse.

A high-profile crossroads deal requires Crowley’s personal attention – a rare occurrence these days. A seedy part of a small town outside of Detroit, crumbling from bureaucratic corruption and economic exploitation. And what does the King happen to see between the slats of a junkyard fence, sitting neglected and slowly rusting away, but a certain 1967 Chevy Impala. Crowley would know the Winchester’s lady anywhere.

He buys it on the spot, the crossroads deal suddenly of far less consequence. Pays cash. Asks for the keys, feels something cringe inside him as the engine shrieks, unable to turn over. He runs his hands over the dash, over the wheel, enjoys being enthroned in the driver’s seat. Now Crowley is the one who picks the music. Now Crowley is the only one left, and the Impala belongs to him. He sincerely hopes Dean, somewhere up in Heaven, is looking down on this and calling him a sonuvabitch.

He’ll keep it, Crowley decides. As a memento.

A quick search on his phone produces a number of reliable mechanics in the area. But it is Braedon’s Classic Cars in the town of Battle Creek that catches his eye. The family-owned operation specializes in the restoration of classic cars. Crowley taps his phone against his chin, considering. His Baby does deserve the best. But the best isn’t always marble-tiled showrooms and Italian-trained mechanics. Sometimes, the best are a bit rough around the edges, with grease stains on their jeans and their heart in all the right places.

The moment Crowley sets eyes on the mechanic who owns Braedon’s Classic Cars, the past takes an unexpected though not entirely unwelcome shape in the present. The name Braedon had sounded vaguely familiar. The grown man in front of him possesses those familiar eyes, cheekbones, way of carrying himself. Crowley feels measured just in the shake of their hands.

She must have been a beauty, Braedon says as he inspects the Impala, runs his hands down her lines, takes a look inside. Kept in good condition, too, until the last few years. He pats the roof as he stands, looks over the top of the car at her owner.

Can you restore her, is what Crowley wants to know.

The young man laughs, a self-assured, almost reckless laugh that belongs to someone else. Looks away, runs his tongue along his teeth. Glances out of the corner of his eye at Crowley, like he’s daring his potential customer to not believe in him. Yeah, he says. I can restore her. Good as new. Better, even. But it’s going to cost you.

Cost isn’t something that concerns Crowley. Neither is time.

The King of Hell watches the restoration over the course of weeks. Watches the steering wheel and dashboard be restored and remembers Dean, drumming away as he belts out the lyrics to some Led Zeppelin song. The leather on the backseats is replaced, and Castiel complains about the limited space, leans forward to inquire something or ask the music be lowered somewhat. The roof is beaten back into shape, and Moose contorts his massive frame to bend down and take his seat on the passenger’s side. Braedon hands him a box of items found in the interior of the car – three legos, a little green army man half-melted into a backseat ash tray, an old cassette tape with all its film unraveled in the glove compartment.

Leave it, Crowley says, and hands the box back.

The trunk has to be jimmied open with a crowbar. Crowley expects to see the old compartment, with its collection of weaponry and spell components and a beat-up old journal. The trunk is empty, no earlier version of himself bound and gagged and pleading for forgiveness waiting there for him. Nothing in the compartment. Not even a demon trap, just scratches of paint in the roof of the trunk. Braedon runs his fingers over the lines, like he’s touching the last traces of some half-remembered recollection.

Piece by piece, the Impala is restored. Her engine once again roars, her black sides gleam, her roomy interior begs for a long road trip. Crowley praises the professionalism of the work, the attention to detail, the obvious pride the mechanic takes in his ability to restore the past to its former glory. He wonders how much of the past Braedon remembers, if he possesses talents beyond car repair, if there are weapons in his own trunk and an anti-possession tattoo on his wrist, hidden under a familiar layer of flannel.

And then, the restoration is complete. She looks just like Crowley remembers last seeing her, only then Baby and her boys were nothing more than taillights disappearing into the distance, one last leg of that long road stretching out before them. Now here she is, gleaming and grand, and belonging entirely to Crowley.

Time for a drive.

The road opens up before him, the engine rumbles contently, and the wheel feels right under his hand. Crowley considers how he will need to arrange more opportunities in the future to take a little trips top-side, leave his courtiers and bodyguards and hangers-on behind him, go for a drive. Maybe a roadtrip through the Midwest, roll down the windows, turn on the radio, tap his hands on the wheel. He will need to make a point of browsing old music shops, find Rolling Stones cassettes. Perhaps a vanity license plate is in order, something to really rub it in the Winchester’s faces.

At the last crossroads leading out of Battle Creek, the Impala rolls to a halt and idles contently.

Crowley expects to feel smug, accomplished. Where so many others met their end at the hands of Dean and Sam Winchester, Crowley alone prevailed. He outlasted the boys. They are cold ash in the remains of a hunter’s funeral pyre, their angel long since dust. And their beloved car now belongs to him, to the demon who was considered perpetually beneath them, unworthy of his own seat in the Impala. In the end, Crowley’s won.

The King of Hell should be reveling in his triumph. Instead, staring down the long and lonely road ahead, for just a moment, Crowley is only a man, one whose only friends are dead and gone.

The Impala pulls back into Braedon’s Classic Cars like it’s coming home. Crowley drops the keys in the hands of Dean’s son. Instructs him to keep the car, keep what Crowley paid him for the work. Keep her running, he says.

You don’t want her? There’s that familiar crunch of a brow, the small frown of confusion. Crowley makes a mental note to keep a closer eye on the demonic activity in the area, keep his black-eyed boys away from a particular town and a certain mechanic.

A car like this belongs out on the road, Crowley replies, running his hands along the side of the Impala. He can almost hear Dean warning him not to scratch the paint. Not as some memento, no matter how good the memories. Take care of each other, now.

And with that, the King of Hell is gone, and Baby is back where she belongs – with a Winchester.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this particular ficlet on my list for quite a while now, and it finally felt like a good time to write it. I know it's rather sad, but it matches my disposition so well at the moment. I can't imagine an alternative world in which Crowley outlives the Winchesters and remains King of Hell where he isn't sad and refuses to admit it to himself. Thanks for reading, kudos and comments are always greatly appreciated.


End file.
